


Bring us the Girl

by theorchidhorror



Category: BioShock Infinite
Genre: Blood, Gen, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-04
Updated: 2017-04-26
Packaged: 2017-12-22 09:04:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/911395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theorchidhorror/pseuds/theorchidhorror
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Luteces may have taken the girl, but that doesn't mean they did so willingly.</p><p> </p><p>(Rated for depictions of torture in later chapters.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“You do realize, my dear Prophet, that what you’re asking us to do is entirely unethical?”

Rosalind Lutece draws her lips into a thin line at her brother’s use of Comstock’s self-given nickname, but gives a curt nod of agreement to punctuate Robert’s statement. In the time she’s known Comstock, she’s done many seemingly harebrained things for him in the past- not the least of all was the number of favors that came as the price of making Columbia a possibility in the first place. But as she sits in the parlor of Lutece Labs, staring incredulously at the Prophet, she wonders if the old man has finally crossed the thin line that divides genius from total senility. Asking them to take a girl- his _daughter_ , technically speaking, from a neighboring world- all so that Columbia might have “a trueborn heir” is, to be absolutely frank, pure madness.

Robert shifts, uncomfortably, in his seat and continues. “The machine was meant to be used merely as a means of _observing_ other worlds, not as a way of manipulating them.”

“My brother being the obvious exception in the matter.” Rosalind interjects sharply, knowing full well that Comstock would use Robert’s arrival from a neighboring world as a precedent rather than an exception to a rule. Robert shoots his sister a look, silently willing her to leave her comment at that and, when she does, breathes a nearly imperceptible sigh of relief and continues.

“If we were to take the girl, there’s no discernible way of knowing what impact her disappearance will have on her world.”

“Or ours, for that matter. We won’t have any part of this.” Rosalind speaks up again and, for the first time since his discovery of her existence, Robert Lutece curses the headstrong nature of his sister. What she fails, or at very least- refuses to comprehend is that men like Comstock aren’t particularly fond of taking ‘no’ for an answer. What Robert had been doing- or _trying_ to do, was let the Prophet down slowly. But his sister’s sharp attitude had blown that plan all to hell.

So the three sit in an awkward silence for what feels like an eternity as Comstock stares them down, his lips pursed and his eyes burning into them like coals. The Luteces exchange a nervous glance that lasts but a millisecond, neither one needing the other to verbalize exactly what it is that’s happening at the moment. Zachary Comstock was not a man you said no to. And what the two (albeit, Rosalind more than Robert) have just done- it’s unprecedented. Robert half expects him to yell and scream- with that passion and fervor that is usually reserved for his sermons. Rosalind prepares herself for the onslaught, but it never comes.

Rather, Comstock stands and, without a word, heads for the door. For a brief, shining moment, the twins are convinced their pleas of reason have gotten through to the Prophet and they breathe a simultaneous sigh of relief. But as he reaches for the handle to the door, Comstock speaks- his voice low and steady, in a manner that Rosalind has only heard once or twice in the entirety of the time that they’ve known each other.  “So help me Lutece…  you _will_ provide what I’ve asked of you. It may take some persuasion, but I will get my way.”


	2. Chapter 2

Maybe a week had passed since the incident with Comstock, and the Luteces had all but forgotten about it. There had been far too much going on in their lives for them to worry about the empty threats of a delusional old man. The Lutece Field required constant upkeep and monitoring, and when they weren’t busy with that, the two were consulting on the numerous scientific matters of Columbia or working in their lab, sometimes simply tinkering with equations and theories for the hell of it.

That particular day, the Luteces had closed the Lab to the public and had busied themselves with the Lutece field, peeking into Robert’s home world and simply talking. His mind had recently adapted enough to where he could recall bit and pieces of his actual childhood (as opposed to  the false memories his mind had built for him to account for his presence in her world) without suffering the confusion and hemorrhaging that had been a constant upon his arrival. As a result, Robert’s tales grew more vivid and detailed- and though she knew it was a less than productive way for the two to spend the day, she allowed herself the indulgence.

It was after dusk when Robert suggested they cease for the evening. It had taken some coercion on his part, but in the end what had convinced Rosalind was the ever so subtle mention of her favorite indulgence: lemon sponge cakes topped with raspberries- a specialty of one of the cafes in Emporia. She had caved then, going so far as to offer to run the errand herself, leaving Robert home alone.

~

It’s nearly an hour later when she returns home, packages in hand. With a foot, she nudges the front door closed and lets out a contented sigh. Rosalind has always considered herself very much an individual who enjoys the comforts of home; being gone for too long always made her just the slightest bit anxious.

“They were out of the cabernet you’re rather fond of; the shop girl suggested I take a white instead. She insisted they were entirely similar. Can you imagine?” Rosalind lets out a dry laugh and pauses at the foot of the stairs to wait for the appearance of her brother.  She can practically hear his response, his voice full of concern and hoping that she didn’t chastise the poor girl too badly because, after all, ‘she’s just a girl, and not all of us have the extensive knowledge of wine that you do, dear sister’; but when not so much as a whisper comes from Robert, Rosalind frowns and sets the packages down where she stands. It was entirely unlike her brother to not at least acknowledge her return home- especially when her absence had been prompted by a mutual craving for wine and those delightful little pastries from Café New Eden.

“…brother?”

As Rosalind begins to ascend the stairs, her mind races with possible reasons for Robert’s silence. While she’s acutely aware that her brother may be sleeping or otherwise occupied, she can’t help her mind from presenting to her variables that are… less than savory and entirely too irrational. Perhaps Robert’s mind has suddenly rejected its new home world and her brother now lie, unconscious and hemorrhaging, on the floor of one of the many rooms in the house.

“Robert!”

Rosalind calls out to him as she sweeps the room, one by one, looking for any sign of her brother. But he’s nowhere to be found, and truthfully, this revelation worries Rosalind more than any of the scenarios her mind had been able to conjure. She rushes back down the staircase, knocking a picture frame off the wall in her haste, and bursts into the lab.

“ _Robert_!”

A quick scan reveals more of the same; the Lab is just as she left it, Robert is still missing, and she still has no idea where he might be.

Rosalind collapses into a chair by a desk and pinches the bridge of her nose in utter frustration. He has to be _somewhere_ ; though she wonders why her brother would leave so suddenly and not even have the courtesy to leave a note or something that would otherwise indicate where he had gone.

And that’s when she sees it.

There _was_ a note, but she can tell instantaneously that it’s not from her brother. How could she not have noticed it before? It was clear as day that the crisp, ivory colored stationary and the official House of Comstock seal  didn’t belong with the various scraps of paper that were scattered across the desk.  Tentatively, Rosalind reaches out to pick up the note, already dreading the words upon it.

The words on the letter are short and concise, but the penmanship is flawless and careful- as if the note’s author wrote it at their leisure, unafraid of when Rosalind might return home- almost as if he knew, almost as if he had been _watching_ her.

She reads the note. Again. And again. And each successive read through awakens in Rosalind a fury that she herself is surprised by. The _audacity_ of Comstock to think that this was an appropriate way to respond to their rejection of his proposal.

With an irritated growl, Rosalind stands and reads the note over, one last time.

>   ** _Come and get him._**
> 
> **_-Comstock_ **


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in getting the new part out! A combination of my computer crashing (causing me to lose most of what I had already written) and being slammed with both school and work has kept me from updating as often as I'd like.
> 
> School should be ending soon, so I anticipate more frequent updates in the future.

He was waiting for her when she arrived.

Not _him_ specifically, but rather, he had sent someone to wait on her arrival. When Rosalind arrived a woman had been there, in the entryway of Comstock House, waiting for her. Rosalind had been prepared to all but throttle the poor girl for information on where Comstock had taken her brother, but was surprised to find the other woman entirely cordial and more than willing to supply Rosalind with the details she needed: Robert and Comstock were in the operating theatre, Comstock had business to discuss with the Luteces, and- most importantly, he was expecting her.

~

As she strides past the woman and down the long hall to one of the House’s few operating theatres, she has time to process the information and fully grasp the implications of Robert’s abduction. Zachary Comstock wants something from them, something that he can only obtain though extreme measures, but _what_? She reaches the entry to the theatre and as her hand brushes the cool metal of the doorknob, it hits her: the girl. This is about their refusal to take the child from another universe.

With a renewed fervor, she bursts into the dimly lit room and approaches Comstock, who is standing only yards away with his back to her.

“ _Comstock_! What is the meaning of this?! Are you really so mad that you’ve resorted to abducting people who defy you? I-"

He turns and smiles at Rosalind, as if she were an old friend come to visit for tea. Comstock says nothing, only raises a hand, both welcoming her and wordlessly commanding silence from the physicist. She grits her teeth, every atom of her being is screaming at her to attack the man. And if it weren’t for the two large men appearing then on either side of her (no doubt to prevent her from doing just that), she’d act on the notion. The men close in on her, now nearly touching either of her shoulders, and Rosalind forces herself to relax- or at very least to speak without spitting the venom running rampant through her veins. She takes a few deep breaths through her nose to steady herself before speaking, her voice terse and irritated.

“Where. Is. He.”

Comstock turns his back to her again, to face the darkened room. She peers into it, unable to make out anything within the room. If Robert is here, she wouldn’t know; and that’s almost as frustrating as the fact that Comstock took Robert in the first place.

“Do you remember when we met, Lutece? You had just completed your work on that Field of yours, and you were just beginning to question whether or not the levitation could be applied to larger objects.”

Rosalind is quiet, more annoyed than anything that Comstock is avoiding her and her questions. A few moments of pregnant silence pass before she realizes that the Prophet expects an answer from her. She exhales sharply, bringing a hand up to pinch the bridge of her nose.

“Yes. You were interested in the concept and took to lobbying on my behalf for the creation of what would eventually become Columbia.”

The Prophet looks over his shoulder at her and smiles again, this time without the warmth. She can see the point he’s trying to make- the quid pro quo, and she detests it.  

“Right. Were it not for me, you’d still be down there, in the Sodom below, hoping and praying that someone might take the scientific work of a woman seriously enough to fund your projects.” Comstock approaches Rosalind as he speaks, his voice getting lower as he continues, until he’s inches from her and his voice is little more than a gravely whisper. “So when I ask you and your _brother_ to take the girl, I don’t think I’m being entirely unreasonable.”

Rosalind sniffs and draws herself up to her full height. If she were any other citizen of Columbia, Comstock’s spectacle might have moved her into action. But she’s not any other citizen, she’s Rosalind Lutece: mother of the Lutece Field and the woman who gave Columbia her wings. If anything, _Comstock_ should be the one fearing _her_. She looks him dead in the eye, and speaks coolly, “Be that as it may, you still haven’t answered my question: where is Robert? I refuse to discuss matters until I know he is safe.”

The Prophet chuckles again and pats Rosalind lightly on her shoulder. It’s a dry, humorless chuckle and it very much reminds Rosalind of a parent attempting to humor a child’s attempt at humor. He turns from her, and this time, the men on either side of Rosalind close in completely, both laying a thick, heavy hand on her shoulder.

“I expected you might answer like that. That’s your problem, Lutece; you fail to see the big picture. You’re too focused on the little things.” He presses a button on a nearby panel and the operating theater beyond the small room they occupy comes to life. Blinding lights come on in all directions, and Rosalind is forced to bring a hand up to shield her eyes from them.

“See for yourself.”

It takes a few seconds for her eyes to adjust to the brilliance of the room, but when she can finally see properly, she understands fully that Comstock is beyond idle threats and quid pro quo.

Further into the theater, in the center of the room, lies the glass enclosure where operations are held. She herself has been inside once or twice, purely as an observer, and the thing that always stood out to her was how much the place smelled more of death than antiseptic. And now, staring into the large glass encasement, Rosalind can see five or six men inside- each one busy with a different task, as well as a number of large and- as far as she knows, not entirely medical, metal implements. The other details of the room elude her, and it’s as if she’s viewing it in a fog, through the eyes of another person.

 

But what Rosalind really processes, what strikes her clear as day, is that there, in the center of the glass enclosure, strapped to a table and unconscious, lays her brother.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well it only took three and a half years but here's the end!
> 
> Special shoutout to the remaster of bioshock that I binge played, which reignited my passion for writing this. Thanks if you've stuck around this long and sorry my writing style has probably changed.
> 
> ( ˘ ³˘)♥

With what feels like very little effort, Rosalind shakes the guards from her shoulders and strides down into the theater, crossing the room to the enclosure.

“Robert...”

Lutece breathes her brother’s name, her voice tinged with hurt, and presses a hand delicately against the thick glass. They should have expected this. Comstock had warned them, and still they did nothing. She was a fool to think- No. There’s little good in dwelling on what they might have done different. They’re here now, and there’s very little she can do to change that.

“What will harming my brother merit you, Comstock?” Rosalind turns back to the Prophet, blind rage mixed with terror building in the pit of her stomach. Her voice trembles as she speaks- the way it always has when she angers, and she hates it. It paints her as weak. “What could you hope to achieve with this? If you harm Robert, or- God forbid-  **worse** , there  _ will  _ be questions. And not a soul in Columbia will be ignorant to what you’ve done.”

Comstock appears to consider her words, rubbing a thoughtful hand down his chin and twisting it briefly in his beard. After a beat, the Prophet chuckles, shaking his head softly.

“I will bend Columbia to my will, as I have for years. They will be none the wiser... You see, Lutece, I  _ always  _ get my way- and you will not deny me this.” Comstock gestures lazily to his men in the enclosure. “Wake him up!” 

The Prophet’s voice is roaring and militant, easily filling the corners of the room with his command.

With a deafening electric crack, light once again fills the room, and Rosalind turns- helpless, to see one of the men pressing what appears to be an electrified pole to Robert’s bare skin. Her brother awakens, writhing in pain, and Rosalind has to look away, her hand clasped to her mouth.

“That’s enough.” 

Comstock looks down at her from atop the theater, the sick satisfaction on his face betraying the soft, advisory tone he takes to speak with Rosalind.

“The Lord helps those that help themselves, Lutece.”

It’s all Rosalind can do to keep her composure, forcing herself to turn back to her brother in the glass enclosure. Comstock wants a reaction from her, and she will not give him the satisfaction. Again, she presses her hand to the glass, her eyes locking with her brother’s. 

When she doesn’t respond to his out, Comstock sighs. “Very well then. You’ve forced my hand.” He nods to a different man, clad in a leather apron, who wordlessly grabs a scalpel off a nearby tray, and turns to Robert. In one fluid motion, the scalpel is pressed flush with Robert’s cheek and pulled, with surgical precision, down towards his jaw. The blood beads against the metal and begins to flow freely, dripping off her brother’s chin and staining his suit. 

Robert struggles against his restraints, and Rosalind watches helplessly, as a few more masked doctors from within the room hold him down, while the man with the scalpel discards the knife and replaces it with a syringe containing a bright green liquid. 

Rosalind’s eyes widen in horror as the syringe is inserted under her brother’s skin, and the plunger is pushed down- forcing the liquid into his system. Robert thrashes for a moment, his voice coming out in choked shouts, before he collapses against the stretcher, catatonic.

“Possession is- if you’ll forgive my language, one  _ Hell  _ of a drug.” Almost as if on cue, Comstock speaks, his voice again booming and filling the theater. “Of course, we’ve just given your dear brother a little taste of it- not enough to do any  _ permanent  _ damage, just enough to make him a little more… agreeable.”

The apron clad man continues on as Comstock speaks, seemingly ignoring the Prophet’s speech altogether. In one swift move, the man removes the surgical glove of his right hand, and Rosalind can see- faintly, a familiar red-orange glow beneath his skin. Flexing his fingers decisively, he watches, wordlessly, as other masked doctors go to work with undoing the fastenings of Robert’s shirt.  

“Comstock!”

Rosalind balls her hands into tight fists and begins banging on the glass between her and her brother, as if- somehow, the noise will bring the men within to their senses. As if  _ somehow _ , she can stop what is about to transpire before it does.

But before she can get much further, Rosalind is once again being restrained by Comstock’s guards. They flank her on both sides, grabbing her arms and pinning them roughly to her side. The surlier of the two then grabs a fistfull of Rosalind’s hair with his free hand, making it impossible for her to look away from the scene playing out before her.

“Stop this nonsense at once!”

Then, all at once, Robert’s screaming punctures the air as his captor presses a Devil’s Kiss wielding hand against her brother’s chest. Rosalind can see, faintly, the skin of her brother’s chest char and blister beneath the heat from the vigor, accompanied soon after by the sickening stench of burnt skin and hair. Rosalind’s hands, still wound tightly into fists, begin to bleed beneath the pressure of her nails. She doesn’t notice her hands, her only thoughts are with how- just as quickly as it had begun, Robert’s screaming dies down. 

The apron clad man pulls his hand back from her brother’s chest, and again flexes his fingers. The fiery glow of his hand disappears, replaced gradually with a cooler, blue undertone.

Robert, his breath labored and pained from the Devil’s kiss, briefly locks eyes with his sister, and she can read the desperation in his eyes. The two know what it will take to stop the torture. And Rosalind can’t help but wonder if- if they agree to take the girl, if she isn’t just trading one life for another. Yet she hardly has time to wax poetic, as the apron clad man is back on her brother, and this time a fluid rope of water is protruding from the hand. Rosalind gasps as the rope is expertly wound around Robert’s head- effectively plunging her brother underwater. He’s held there for what feels like ages, and Rosalind can see her brother run out of breath and begin to aspirate sea water. Then suddenly the binding is gone, the water rope falling lifelessly against Robert and then splashing to the ground.

“Release her.”

Comstock’s voice cuts through her like ice down her spine.  He’s down in the theatre now- at her level, coming up from behind Rosalind and the Prophet’s men. The men do as they are bid, and their hands are suddenly withdrawn from her hair and shoulders.

Rosalind throws herself to the window of the operating theatre, a desperate hand pressing against the cool glass. What little composure she has left is gone- and with it, the mask of the cold, stoic physicist she so often wears. In that moment, Rosalind Lutece- Mother of Columbia, is gone, replaced with simply Rosalind. The woman who laughs and eats lemon sponge cake and cares only for her brother- the woman who is  _ vulnerable  _ is all that’s left behind. Rosalind beats at the glass with her hands, streaking the clear, open view with the blood she hadn’t realized was there.

“We can keep at this all day, Lutece. Fink’s been a busy man- we’ve got a  _ whole line _ of vigors to try out on your  **brother** .” The last word is practically spat at her as the Prophet comes alongside her and places a heavy hand on her shoulder. He leans into her, his voice coming out in a low growl. “And let me tell you, the Zealots have been doing some  _ wonderful  _ things with their crow concoction lately.”

“...we’ll do it.”

The words are pouring from her lips before she even know she’s speaking them. It’s hardly above a whisper, but Rosalind can swear her brother hears her, his wide eyes unblinking at her as she speaks. 

“Come again? These old ears just aren’t what they used to be, you know.” Comstock’s hand squeezes her shoulder, and turn Rosalind away from the glass and towards him. His face has the faintest hint of a smile and Rosalind takes a step back as she realizes what he wants. “Say it again, Lutece- loud enough for the room to hear!” He wants to humiliate her, subjugate her, and remind her that- while she may have given Columbia its wings-  _ he’s _ the one that keeps it afloat.

“We’ll do it!” Her voice is projected throughout the theatre, and the whole room can hear how her voice cracks and how she speaks with a desperation and pleading that even she wasn’t aware she could reach. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters anymore but getting her brother home, safely.She shakes Comstock off her shoulder forcefully and turns again to Robert, her blood stained hand touching the glass gingerly, as she would touch his face were he safe and in her care. “...we’ll take the girl. Just let my brother go.” 


End file.
